Ρόμπερτ Φόξ (Robert Fox): Παραμύθι

 

 

Ρόμπερτ Φόξ (Robert Fox)

 

Παραμύθι

(A Fable)

 

ΝΕΑΡΟΣ ἦ­ταν φρε­σκο­ξυ­ρι­σμέ­νος καὶ κα­λον­τυ­μέ­νος. Ἦ­ταν Δευ­τέ­ρα, νω­ρὶς τὸ πρω­ί, ὅ­ταν ἐ­πι­βι­βά­στη­κε στὸν ὑ­πό­γει­ο σι­δη­ρό­δρο­μο. Ἦ­ταν ἡ πρώ­τη μέ­ρα τῆς πρώ­της του δου­λειᾶς καὶ ἔ­νι­ω­θε ἀ­μή­χα­να: δὲν ἤ­ξε­ρε ἀ­κρι­βῶς ποι­ὰ θὰ ἦ­ταν ἡ δου­λειά του. Κα­τὰ τ’ ἄλ­λα ἔ­νι­ω­θε ὑ­πέ­ρο­χα. Ἀ­γα­ποῦ­σε τοὺς πάν­τες στὸ δρό­μο καὶ ὅ­λους ποὺ ἔμ­παι­ναν στὸ τρέ­νο, καὶ ἀ­γα­ποῦ­σε τὸν κό­σμο για­τί ἦ­ταν μιὰ ὄ­μορ­φη ἀ­νέ­φε­λη μέ­ρα, ἡ πρώ­τη τῆς πρώ­της του δου­λειᾶς.

       Χω­ρὶς νὰ κλο­τσή­σει κα­νέ­ναν, ὁ νε­α­ρὸς κα­τά­φε­ρε νὰ βρεῖ μιὰ θέ­ση στὸ τρέ­νο γιὰ τὸ Μαν­χά­ταν. Ὁ συρ­μὸς γέ­μι­σε γρή­γο­ρα: ὁ νε­α­ρὸς κοί­τα­ξε γύ­ρω του, τοὺς ὄρ­θιους ποὺ θὰ ἤ­θε­λαν νὰ κά­θον­ται αὐ­τοὶ στὴ θέ­ση του. Ἀ­νά­με­σά τους ἦ­ταν μιὰ μη­τέ­ρα καὶ μιὰ κό­ρη ποὺ εἶ­χαν βγεῖ γιὰ ψώ­νια. Ἡ κό­ρη, μιὰ ὄ­μορ­φη ξαν­θιὰ κο­πέ­λα μὲ ἁ­πα­λὸ δέρ­μα, τοῦ τρά­βη­ξε ἀ­μέ­σως τὸ ἐν­δι­α­φέ­ρον.

      «Σὲ κοι­τά­ζει», ψι­θύ­ρι­σε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα στὴν κό­ρη.

      «Ναί, μη­τέ­ρα, νι­ώ­θω πο­λὺ ἄ­βο­λα. Τί νὰ κά­νω;»

      «Σὲ ἔ­χει ἐ­ρω­τευ­τεῖ.»

      «Μὲ ἔ­χει ἐ­ρω­τευ­τεῖ; Μὰ ποῦ τὸ κα­τά­λα­βες;»

      «Ἡ μη­τέ­ρα σου εἶ­μαι.»

      «Καὶ τί νὰ κά­νω;»

      «Τί­πο­τα. Θὰ προ­σπα­θή­σει νὰ σοῦ μι­λή­σει. Ἂν τὸ κά­νει, ἀ­πάν­τη­σέ του. Νὰ εἶ­σαι εὐ­γε­νι­κή. Μι­κρὸ ἀ­γό­ρι εἶ­ναι ἀ­κό­μα.»

      Τὸ τρέ­νο ἔ­φτα­σε στὸ ἐ­πι­χει­ρη­μα­τι­κὸ κέν­τρο καὶ κα­τέ­βη­καν πολ­λοὶ ἐ­πι­βά­τες. Ἄ­δεια­σαν θέ­σεις καὶ τὸ κο­ρί­τσι μὲ τὴ μη­τέ­ρα της κά­θι­σαν ἀ­πέ­ναν­τι ἀ­πὸ τὸν νε­α­ρό. Αὐ­τὸς συ­νέ­χι­σε νὰ κοι­τά­ζει τὸ κο­ρί­τσι καὶ αὐ­τὴ κοί­τα­ζε κά­θε τό­σο νὰ δεῖ ἂν τὴν κοι­τοῦ­σε.

      Ὁ νε­α­ρὸς ἔ­δω­σε τὴ θέ­ση του σ’ ἕ­ναν ἡ­λι­κι­ω­μέ­νο κύ­ριο, μιὰ κα­λὴ δι­και­ο­λο­γί­α νὰ στα­θεῖ ὄρ­θιος πά­νω ἀ­πὸ τὸ κο­ρί­τσι καὶ τὴ μη­τέ­ρα. Αὐ­τὲς ἀν­τάλ­λασ­σαν ψι­θυ­ρι­στὲς κου­βέν­τες καὶ ὅ­λο κοι­τοῦ­σαν πρὸς τὸ μέ­ρος του. Σὲ μιὰ ἄλ­λη στά­ση ἄ­δεια­σε τὸ κά­θι­σμα δί­πλα στὸ κο­ρί­τσι καὶ ὁ νε­α­ρὸς μπο­ρεῖ νὰ κοκ­κί­νι­σε ἀλ­λὰ ἔ­σπευ­σε νὰ κα­θί­σει ἐ­κεῖ.

      «Τὸ ἤ­ξε­ρα», ψι­θύ­ρι­σε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα μέ­σα ἀ­πὸ τὰ δόν­τια της. «Τὸ ἤ­ξε­ρα, τὸ ἤ­ξε­ρα.»

      Ὁ νε­α­ρὸς ξε­ρό­βη­ξε καὶ σκούν­τη­σε τὸ κο­ρί­τσι. Αὐ­τὴ πε­τά­χτη­κε ξαφ­νι­α­σμέ­νη.

      «Μὲ συγ­χω­ρεῖ­τε», τῆς εἶ­πε. «Εἶ­στε πο­λὺ ὡ­ραί­α κο­πέ­λα.»

      «Σᾶς εὐ­χα­ρι­στῶ», τοῦ εἶ­πε αὐ­τή.

      «Μὴν τοῦ μι­λᾶς», τῆς εἶ­πε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα της. «Μὴν τοῦ ἀ­παν­τᾶς. Σὲ προ­ει­δο­ποι­ῶ. Πί­στε­ψέ με».

      «Σὲ ἔ­χω ἐ­ρω­τευ­τεῖ», εἶ­πε αὐ­τὸς στὸ κο­ρί­τσι.

      «Δὲν σὲ πι­στεύ­ω», τοῦ ἀ­πάν­τη­σε αὐ­τή.

      «Μὴν τοῦ ἀ­παν­τάς», τῆς εἶ­πε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα της.

      «Ἀ­λή­θεια σοῦ λέ­ω», ἐ­πέ­μει­νε αὐ­τός. «Μά­λι­στα εἶ­μαι τό­σο ἐ­ρω­τευ­μέ­νος ποὺ θέ­λω νὰ σὲ παν­τρευ­τῶ.»

      «Δου­λειὰ ἔ­χεις;» τὸν ρώ­τη­σε αὐ­τή.

      «Ναί, σή­με­ρα εἶ­ναι ἡ πρώ­τη μέ­ρα. Πη­γαί­νω στὸ Μαν­χά­ταν νὰ ξε­κι­νή­σω σή­με­ρα».

      «Τί δου­λειὰ θὰ κά­νεις;» τὸν ρώ­τη­σε.

      «Δὲν ξέ­ρω ἀ­κρι­βῶς», τῆς εἶ­πε. «Δὲν ἄρ­χι­σα ἀ­κό­μα, βλέ­πεις.»

      «Συ­ναρ­πα­στι­κὸ ἀ­κού­γε­ται», εἶ­πε αὐ­τή.

      «Εἶ­ναι ἡ πρώ­τη μου δου­λειά, ἀλ­λὰ θὰ ἔ­χω δι­κό μου γρα­φεῖο καὶ θὰ περ­νᾶ­νε πολ­λὰ χαρ­τιὰ ἀ­πὸ τὰ χέ­ρια μου καὶ θὰ τὰ κου­βα­λά­ω μὲ ἕ­να χαρ­το­φύ­λα­κα καὶ θὰ παίρ­νω κα­λὰ λε­φτὰ καὶ θὰ φτά­σω ψη­λά.»

      «Σ’ ἀ­γα­πῶ», τοῦ εἶ­πε αὐ­τή.

      «Θὰ μὲ παν­τρευ­τεῖς;»

      «Δὲν ξέ­ρω. Πρέ­πει νὰ ρω­τή­σω τὴ μη­τέ­ρα μου.»

      Ὁ νε­α­ρὸς ση­κώ­θη­κε ἀ­πὸ τὴ θέ­ση του καὶ στά­θη­κε μπρο­στὰ στὴ μη­τέ­ρα τοῦ κο­ρι­τσιοῦ. Ἀ­φοῦ κα­θά­ρι­σε κα­λὰ κα­λὰ τὸ λαι­μό του, τῆς εἶ­πε: «Μπο­ρῶ νὰ ἔ­χω τὴν τι­μὴ νὰ ζη­τή­σω τὸ χέ­ρι τῆς κό­ρης σας;­», ἀλ­λὰ ὁ θό­ρυ­βος τοῦ τρέ­νου σκέ­πα­σε τὰ λό­για του.

      Ἡ μη­τέ­ρα σή­κω­σε τὸ βλέμ­μα καὶ τὸν κοί­τα­ξε. «Τί;» τοῦ εἶ­πε. Οὔ­τε αὐ­τὸς μπο­ροῦ­σε νὰ τὴν ἀ­κού­σει, ἀλ­λὰ ἀ­πὸ τὴν κί­νη­ση τῶν χει­λι­ῶν της καὶ ἀ­πὸ τὴν σύ­σπα­ση τοῦ προ­σώ­που της κα­τά­λα­βε ὅ­τι τὸν ρώ­τη­σε «Τί;­».

      Τὸ τρέ­νο στα­μά­τη­σε σ’ ἕ­να σταθ­μό.

      «Μπο­ρῶ νὰ ἔ­χω τὴν τι­μὴ νὰ ζη­τή­σω τὸ χέ­ρι τῆς κό­ρης σας;» εἶ­πε φω­να­χτά, λη­σμο­νών­τας ὅ­τι εἶ­χε στα­μα­τή­σει ὁ θό­ρυ­βος τοῦ τρέ­νου.

      Ὅ­λοι οἱ ἐ­πι­βά­τες τοῦ τρέ­νου τὸν κοί­τα­ξαν, χα­μο­γέ­λα­σαν καὶ χει­ρο­κρό­τη­σαν.

      «Τρε­λά­θη­κες;» ρώ­τη­σε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα. Τὸ τρέ­νο ξε­κί­νη­σε πά­λι. «Τί;» τὴ ρώ­τη­σε.

      «Για­τί θὲς νὰ τὴν παν­τρευ­τεῖς;» τὸν ρώ­τη­σε.

      «Μά, εἶ­ναι ὄ­μορ­φη – θέ­λω νὰ πῶ, τὴν ἔ­χω ἐ­ρω­τευ­τεῖ.»

      «Μό­νο αὐ­τό;»

      «Ἔ­τσι νο­μί­ζω», εἶ­πε. «Χρει­ά­ζε­ται κά­τι πα­ρα­πά­νω;»

      «Ὄ­χι, συ­νή­θως ὄ­χι», εἶ­πε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα. «Ἐρ­γά­ζε­σαι κά­που;»

      «Ναί, ἐρ­γά­ζο­μαι. Μά­λι­στα γι’ αὐ­τὸ πη­γαί­νω τό­σο νω­ρὶς στὸ Μαν­χά­ταν. Σή­με­ρα εἶ­ναι ἡ πρώ­τη μέ­ρα τῆς πρώ­της μου δου­λειᾶς.»

      «Συγ­χα­ρη­τή­ρια», εἶ­πε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα.

      «Σᾶς εὐ­χα­ρι­στῶ», ἀ­πάν­τη­σε αὐ­τός. «Μπο­ρῶ νὰ παν­τρευ­τῶ τὴν κό­ρη σας;»

      «Ἔ­χεις αὐ­το­κί­νη­το;»

      «Ὄ­χι ἀ­κό­μα, ἀλ­λὰ εἶ­ναι βέ­βαι­ο ὅ­τι σύν­το­μα θὰ ἀ­πο­κτή­σω. Καὶ σπί­τι.»

      «Καὶ σπί­τι;»

      «Μὲ πολ­λὰ δω­μά­τια.»

      «Ναί, αὐ­τὸ πε­ρί­με­να ὅ­τι θὰ ἔ­λε­γες», συ­νέ­χι­σε ἐ­κεί­νη. Γύ­ρι­σε πρὸς τὸ μέ­ρος τῆς κό­ρης της. «Τὸν ἀ­γα­πᾶς;»

      «Ναί, μη­τέ­ρα, τὸν ἀ­γα­πῶ.»

      «Για­τί;»

      «Για­τί εἶ­ναι κα­λὸς καὶ τρυ­φε­ρὸς καὶ εὐ­γε­νι­κός.»

      «Εἶ­σαι σί­γου­ρη;»

      «Εἶ­μαι.»

      «Τό­τε τὸν ἀ­γα­πᾶς πραγ­μα­τι­κά.»

      «Ναί».

      «Εἶ­σαι σί­γου­ρη ὅ­τι δὲν ὑ­πάρ­χει ἄλ­λος ποὺ μπο­ρεῖ νὰ ἀ­γα­πή­σεις καὶ νὰ θὲς νὰ παν­τρευ­τεῖς;»

      «Ὄ­χι, μη­τέ­ρα», εἶ­πε τὸ κο­ρί­τσι.

      «Ὡ­ραῖ­α, λοι­πόν», εἶ­πε ἡ μη­τέ­ρα στὸν νε­α­ρό. «Φαί­νε­ται ὅ­τι ἐ­γὼ δὲν μπο­ρῶ νὰ κά­νω κά­τι γι’ αὐ­τό. Ξα­να­ρώ­τα την.» Τὸ τρέ­νο στα­μά­τη­σε.

      «Πο­λυ­α­γα­πη­μέ­νη μου», εἶ­πε αὐ­τός, «θὰ μὲ παν­τρευ­τεῖς;»

      «Ναί», τοῦ εἶ­πε αὐ­τή. Ὅ­λοι οἱ ἐ­πι­βά­τες τοῦ βα­γο­νιοῦ χα­μο­γέ­λα­σαν καὶ χει­ρο­κρό­τη­σαν.

      «Δὲν εἶ­ναι ὑ­πέ­ρο­χη ἡ ζω­ή;» εἶ­πε ὁ νε­α­ρὸς στὴ μη­τέ­ρα.

      «Πα­νέ­μορ­φη», τοῦ ἀ­πάν­τη­σε αὐ­τή.

      Ὁ εἰ­σπρά­κτο­ρας κα­τέ­βη­κε ἀ­πὸ τὸ χώ­ρι­σμα ἀ­νά­με­σα στὰ βα­γό­νια καί, κα­θὼς ξε­κι­νοῦ­σε πά­λι τὸ τρέ­νο, ἔ­φτια­ξε τὴ σκου­ρό­χρω­μη γρα­βά­τα του καὶ τοὺς πλη­σί­α­σε κρα­τών­τας ἕ­να ἐ­πί­ση­μο μαῦ­ρο βι­βλί­ο.

 

[Ἡ δρα­μα­το­ποί­η­ση πε­ζο­γρα­φικῶν κει­μέ­νων ποὺ τὰ τε­λευ­ταῖα ἔτη σα­ρώ­νει τὴ ἑλλη­νικὴ θε­α­τρικὴ σκη­νή (ἀπο­μέ­νει ὁ τη­λε­φωνικὸς κα­τά­λο­γος) ἔχει τὸ προ­η­γού­με­νό της στὴν δια­δε­δο­μέ­νη πρα­κτικὴ τοῦ δια­δι­κτύ­ου ἐρα­σι­τέ­χνες καὶ νέοι καλ­λι­τέ­χνες νὰ δρα­ματο­ποιοῦν γνω­στὰ καὶ ἄγνω­στα μι­κρὰ δι­η­γή­μα­τα. Ἕνα φαι­νό­με­νο ποὺ πε­ριλαμ­βά­νει ἐξαι­ρε­τικὰ δείγ­μα­τα, ὅπως τὸ «Ρο­χέ­λιο» τοῦ Γκι­γέρ­μο Ἀρριά­γα ποὺ ἀναρ­τή­σα­με ἐδῶ, ἕως τὸ πα­ρακά­τω ἐρα­σι­τε­χνικὸ βί­ντε­ο ποὺ πα­ρα­θέ­του­με γιὰ τὴν τεκ­μη­ρί­ω­ση τοῦ φαι­νο­μέ­νου (γιὰ τὴν κα­λύ­τε­ρη πα­ρα­κο­λού­θη­ση τῶν δια­λόγων πα­ρα­θέ­του­με καὶ τὸ ἀγ­γλι­κὸ πρω­τό­τυ­πο):

 

R­o­b­e­rt F­ox

 

A Fable

 

THE YOUNG MAN was clean shaven and neatly dressed. It was early Monday morning and he got on the subway. It was the first day of his first job and he was slightly nervous; he didn’t know exactly what his job would be. Otherwise he felt fine. He loved everybody he saw. He loved everybody on the street and everybody disappearing into the subway, and he loved the world because it was a fine clear day and he was starting his first job.

       Without kicking anybody, the young man was able to find a seat on the Manhattan-bound train. The car filled quickly and he looked up at the people standing over him envying his seat. Among them were a mother and daughter who were shopping. The daughter was a beautiful girl with blond hair and soft-looking skin, and he was immediately attracted to her.

      “He’s staring at you,” the mother whispered to the daughter.

      “Yes, Mother, I feel so uncomfortable. What shall I do?”

      “He’s in love with you.”

      “In love with me? How can you tell?”

      “Because I’m your mother.”

      “But what shall I do?”

      “Nothing. He’ll try to talk to you. If he does, answer him, be nice to him. He’s only a boy.”

      The train reached the business district and many people got off. The girl and her mother found seats opposite the young man. He continued to look at the girl who occasionally looked to see if he was looking at her.

      The young man found a good pretext for standing in giving his seat to an elderly woman. He stood over the girl and her mother. They whispered back and forth and looked up at him. At another stop the seat next to the girl was vacated, and the young man blushed but quickly took it. “I knew it,” the mother said between her teeth. “I knew it, I knew it.”

      The young man cleared his throat and tapped the girl. She jumped.

      “Pardon me,” he said. “You’re a very pretty girl.”

      “Don’t talk to him,” her mother said. “Don’t answer him. I’m warning you. Believe me.”

      “I’m in love with you,” he said to the girl.

      “I don’t believe you,” the girl said.

      “Don’t answer him,” the mother said.

      “I really do,” he said. “In fact, I’m so much in love with you that I want to marry you.”

      “Do you have a job?” she said.

      “Yes, today is my first day. I’m going to Manhattan to start my first day of work.”

      “What kind of work will you do?” she asked.

      “I don’t know exactly,” he said. “You see, I didn’t start yet.”

      “It sounds exciting,” she said.

      “It’s my first job, but I’ll have my own desk and handle a lot of papers and carry them around in a briefcase, and it will pay well,” and I’ll work my way up.”

      “I love you,” she said.

      “Will you marry me?”

      “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my mother.”

      The young man rose from his seat and stood before the girl’s mother. He cleared his throat very carefully for a long time. “May I have the honor of having your daughter’s hand in marriage?” he said, but he was drowned out by the subway noise.

      The mother looked up at him and said, “What?” He couldn’t hear her either, but he could tell by the movement of her lips and by the way her face wrinkled up that she said, What.

      The train pulled to a stop.

      “May I have the honor of having your daughter’s hand in marriage!” he shouted, not realizing there was no subway noise. Everybody on the train looked at him, smiled, and then they all applauded.

      “Are you crazy?” the mother asked.

      The train started again.

      “What?” he said.

      “Why do you want to marry her?” she asked.

      “Well, she’s pretty — I mean, I’m in love with her.”

      “Is that all?”

      “I guess so,” he said. “Is there supposed to be more?”

      “No. Not usually,” the mother said. “Are you working?”

      “Yes. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m going to Manhattan so early. Today is the first day of my first job.”

      “Congratulations,” the mother said.

      “Thanks,” he said. “Can I marry your daughter?”

      “Do you have a car?” she asked.

      “Not yet,” he said. “But I should be able to get one pretty soon. And a house, too.”

      “A house?”

      “With lots of rooms.”

      “Yes, that’s what I expected you to say,” she said. She turned to her daughter. “Do you love him?”

      “Yes, Mother, I do.”

      “Why?”

      “Because he’s good, and gentle, and kind.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you really love him.”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you sure there isn’t anyone else you might love and might want to marry?”

      “No, Mother,” the girl said.

      “Well, then,” the mother said to the young man. “Looks like there’s nothing I can do about it. Ask her again.”

      The train stopped.

      “My dearest one,” he said, “will you marry me?”

      “Yes,” she said.

      Everybody in the car smiled and applauded.

      “Isn’t life wonderful?” the boy asked the mother.

      “Beautiful,” the mother said.

      The conductor climbed down from between the cars as the train started up and, straightening his dark tie, approached them with a solemn black book in his hand.

 

 

Πη­γή: Ἀ­πὸ τὴ συλ­λο­γὴ δι­η­γη­μά­των Sha­pard, Ro­bert and Ja­mes Tho­mas, eds. Sud­den Fi­ction, A­me­ri­can Short-Short Sto­ri­es, Salt La­ke Ci­ty: Gibbs-Smith pu­bli­sher, 1986. Πρώ­τη δη­μο­σί­ευ­ση στὸ πε­ρι­ο­δι­κὸ The Mid­western U­ni­ver­si­ty Quar­ter­ly, 1966, ἀρ. 3. Προ­δη­μο­σί­ευ­ση ἀ­πὸ τὸ προ­σε­χὲς τεῦ­χος τοῦ Πλα­νό­διου τὸ ἀ­φι­ε­ρω­μέ­νο στὸ ἀ­με­ρι­κα­νι­κὸ μπον­ζά­ι.

 

Ρό­μπερ­τ Φόξ (R­o­b­e­rt F­ox). Δια­μέ­νει στὸ Κο­λό­μπους τοῦ Ὀχά­ιο. Γρά­φει καὶ δη­μο­σιεύει πε­ζο­γρα­φί­α γιὰ πά­νω ἀπὸ τρεῖς δε­κα­ε­τί­ες. Τὸ 1987 κυ­κλο­φό­ρη­σε τὸ ἔργο του Tlar & Codpol: The Last American RevolutionConfessions of a Dead Politician. Two novels dy Robert Fox. Ὁ Φὸξ γρά­φει ἐπί­σης καὶ παί­ζει μπλοὺζ καὶ ἔχει κυ­κλοφο­ρή­σει ἕνα CD μὲ τί­τλο Primary Blues. Εἶναι συ­ντο­νι­στὴς ἑνὸς προ­γράμ­μα­τος λο­γο­τε­χνί­ας γιὰ τὸ Συμ­βού­λιο Τε­χνῶν τοῦ Ὀχά­ιο, καὶ ἱδρυτὴς (1973) τοῦ ἐκδο­τι­κοῦ «Carpenter Press». Γιὰ τὰ ὑπέρ­μι­κρα δι­η­γή­μα­τά του δη­λώ­νει: «Οἱ προ­σπά­θειές μου ἐμπνέ­ο­νται ἀπὸ ἕνα ἀπί­θα­νο μίγ­μα συγγρα­φέ­ων: Σα­ρο­γιάν, Μπα­μπέλ, καὶ Μπόρ­χες.»

 

Με­τά­φρα­ση ἀ­πὸ τὰ ἀγ­γλι­κά:

Νί­κος Λίγ­γρης (Ἡ­ρά­κλει­ο Κρή­της, 1948) Λε­ξι­κο­γρά­φος, συγ­γρα­φέ­ας ἐκ­παι­δευ­τι­κῶν βι­βλί­ων καὶ με­τα­φρα­στής. Δί­δα­ξε ἀγ­γλι­κά, δού­λε­ψε στὴν ἑλ­λη­νι­κὴ ὑ­πη­ρε­σί­α τοῦ B­BC, ἔ­χει κά­νει ὅ­λα σχε­δὸν τὰ εἴ­δη τῆς με­τά­φρα­σης, καὶ τὰ τε­λευ­ταῖ­α χρό­νια βο­η­θᾶ με­τα­φρα­στὲς μέ­σῳ ἑ­νὸς με­τα­φρα­στι­κοῦ φό­ρουμ ποὺ ἔ­χει ἱ­δρύ­σει. Οἱ με­τα­φρά­σεις του ἔ­γι­ναν στὸ μο­νο­το­νι­κὸ καὶ πο­λυ­το­νί­στη­καν σύμ­φω­να μὲ τὶς ἀρ­χὲς τοῦ πε­ρι­ο­δι­κοῦ.

 

Φωτογραφία: Πίνακας τοῦ Κestutis Κasparavicius.

 

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